


My True Love Gave To Me

by serendipityinwords



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Pining, Wellven, a real pathetic amount of pining, bellamy is the grinch, bonding over harry potter, clarke wears ugly christmas sweaters, octavia is a terrible bartender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-18
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:43:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serendipityinwords/pseuds/serendipityinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve known Bellamy for five years and it’s true,” Miller agrees. He wants to kick him but Monty’s asleep on his shoulder and he doesn’t want to risk hurting Monty. “He actually has a master plan to steal Christmas.”</p>
<p>He rolls his eyes because, really? “I don’t want to steal Christmas. I just think it’s an extremely commercialized notion that really doesn’t make sense. Jesus wasn’t even born anywhere close to Christmas, which is really counterproductive. I just don’t subscribe to it.” And it’s mostly true. But there’s also his mother and he doesn’t want to talk about that.</p>
<p>Clarke stares at him, wide eyed. Miller looks mildly amused and Raven just looks above it all—which she probably is.</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Clarke says. “You are the Grinch.”</p>
<p>Or</p>
<p>Clarke is determined to make Bellamy fall in love with Christmas. But, Bellamy falls in love with Clarke instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My True Love Gave To Me

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Christmas trash. I'm also Bellarke trash. This is the end result. 
> 
> Title from The twelve days of Christmas

Bellamy doesn’t think his crush on Clarke could get any worse. Then she just waltzes into the bar, wearing a bright green Christmas sweater, and it isn’t even fair. He’s not even a big fan of Christmas. But Clarke liking Christmas makes the holiday better. Slightly.

But nothing’s going to happen because she’s Clarke and he’s Bellamy and things like that don’t just _happen_. So, when she settles into the booth next to him smelling like pine, he just says, “Are you aware you look like a Christmas tree?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Are you aware you look like a dick?”

Miller snorts because he’s a fucking traitor and Raven cackles because she’s Raven.

“Besides, it’s Christmas,” she says primly. She stares at Bellamy’s plain grey t-shirt perplexed, as if wearing a sweater in the 70 degree heat, isn’t the weird costume choice. Bellamy stares right back at her sweater but then realizes he’s staring right at her boobs and stares at the crown of her head instead because even in a fucking sweater, her boobs are distracting. He clears his throat. “It’s the thirteenth,” he says.

Clarke shakes her head, clearly exasperated. “Close enough.” She hums a little, smiling at the fake frost lined at the windows. It’s a sad imitation of the actual thing but she seems to love it and he’s charmed despite himself. “Twelve days to Christmas,” she whispers so quietly, he’s pretty sure he’s the only one listening.

“Don’t bother, Clarke,” Octavia yells from behind the bar. The other customers start. “He’s basically the Grinch.”

She seems to spend more time eavesdropping on them, than actually tending the bar, which is strange because that’s her job. Usually, she just makes the drinks, like she’s doing the customers a favour, and wipes the counter only when someone vomits, which is really unhygienic and he would have found a different bar if the drinks weren’t free. Also, he loves his sister and supports her in everything she does. But that’s beside the point. 

“I’ve known Bellamy for five years and it’s true,” Miller agrees. He wants to kick him but Monty’s asleep on his shoulder and he doesn’t want to risk hurting Monty. “He actually has a master plan to steal Christmas.”

He rolls his eyes because, _really_? “I don’t want to _steal_ Christmas. I just think it’s an extremely commercialized notion that really doesn’t make sense. Jesus wasn’t even born anywhere close to Christmas, which is really counterproductive. I just don’t subscribe to it.” And it’s mostly true. But there’s also his mother and he doesn’t want to talk about that.

Clarke stares at him, wide eyed. Miller looks mildly amused and Raven just looks above it all—which she probably is.

“Oh my god,” Clarke says. “You are the Grinch.”

It goes quite for a while. The silence is a comfortable one. Not riddled with the urge to say something just to keep the momentum going. When you’ve been friends for a while, you learn that you don’t have to keep talking to fill the voids. You could pick up from wherever and everyone would still get it. Clarke is a new addition, but she fits like a glove.

He still remembers the first time he’d seen her. As a general rule, he didn’t date Octavia’s friends, because he never stuck around and he didn’t want it to get awkward for Octavia. But, God, he’d almost reconsidered when he met Clarke. She was pretty, whip-smart and kind. Stubborn, too. Even then, he’d managed to keep his hands to himself. Then, she started arguing with him, drunk off her ass, about how _Dumbledore was just doing his best._ Then, it was just a goddamned miracle he’d kept his hands off her.

Clarke hums beside him, distractedly. A song. A very familiar song. One he must have heard a thousand times. And never voluntarily. He’s still struggling to put a finger on it when Clarke’s eyes light up. It’s a good look on her (everything is a good look on her), but he knows that look all too well and it usually (always) means trouble. “I have an idea,” she cries. Bellamy stifles a sigh.

“What?” he asks carefully.

“I’m going to get you to love Christmas _by_ Christmas.”

Bellamy snorts. “Not gonna happen, Princess.”

Clarke frowns, predictably, at the nickname. But there’s something else, too. A kind of fondness he doesn’t want to notice.

“Clarke,” Octavia yells, startling the patrons further. “I love you, but it’s never going to work. Trust me. I’ve been through 19-not-Christmases and he has never once budged.”

The moment or whatever it was, is broken and he can’t help but feel a little glad for it. But Clarke looks suddenly thoughtful and it makes him nervous. Bellamy considers himself a strong person but Clarke can bring just about anyone down on their knees.

Bellamy is sufficiently scared.

So, he says, “O, what could they possibly be paying you for?”

Octavia rests her face against the palm of her hand, in deep thought. “To look really hot.”

Bellamy makes a face.

Okay, he’d rather talk to Clarke.

“How exactly are you going to do it?” he asks, partly to scoff at her. Partly because he’s curious.

Clarke looks up at him, surprised. As if she had forgotten he was there. “Huh?”

“How are you going to make me love Christmas?” He clarifies.

She beams up at him and his breath catches. _Slightly_. Okay, a lot. “Twelve days of Christmas.”

He raises an eyebrow. _That’s what she was humming_. “The song? I don’t believe in slavery,” he quips, only a little ashamed that he recalls the lyrics.

“Funny,” she says, dry. “Scoff all you want, Bellamy. I’m going to make you fall in love with Christmas. And it’s going to be inexpensive,” she adds as an afterthought.

He grins into his drink. “Cheap.”

Clarke gives him a severely unimpressed look. “Like you’ll take an expensive gift from me.”

He does not think about how well she knows him. No, he does not.

“It’s never going to work,” he decides. Probably never going to work. Maybe won’t work. _What if it does?_ He’s never been so far-gone for anyone before Clarke. _What the fuck did he know?_

Clarke seems to pick up on his indecisiveness because she smiles at him. Huge and excited. The kind of smile that Bellamy’s chest feel all warm because he knows she didn’t mean to show all her teeth. The last time she smiled at him this way, the feeling hadn’t worn off for days. He can’t say he resents it. He just wishes he can see her smile in the mornings or when she comes home from a bad work day. He wishes he doesn’t have to scramble for moments like this. It never feels enough.

“It might,” Raven says, sudden. He hadn’t known she’s been listening. She had seemed to be engaged in a deep conversation with Wells about the pros and cons of Brussel sprouts (Wells: It’s healthy. Raven: It’s fucking disgusting, Jaha.) But apparently, she was. And, apparently, she has opinions on the matter. “If there’s one person who can convince the actual Grinch to love Christmas, it would be Clarke Griffin.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Not the Grinch and it’s not going to work.” He’s _pretty_ sure.

Raven goes on, unbothered. “Let’s bet on it.” He stifles a groan. The group always got really competitive when bets were involved. They didn’t even do it for the money. They did it for the satisfaction of being right. Sadistic assholes. Plus, he didn’t want the extra attention on them. It was hard enough to hide his feelings for Clarke when everyone wasn’t looking, but now?

“They’re both stubborn bastards. It’ll be fun,” adds Wells. Clarke shoots him a look of pure betrayal but he just shrugs.

“Clarke’s going to do win,” Raven announces.

“She won’t,” shouts Octavia, ignoring a customer’s request for a refill.

“She will,” Monty says stirring from his sleep. Clarke pats his head, maternal.

“Neutral.” Clarke purses her lips at Wells. “What? You’re both equally capable. I’m putting my money on both of you.”

“We don’t put in money. It’s really not that fun. But Clarke will fuck it up. Probably, make him hate it more,” Murphy decides, finally taking a break from checking out the brunette from a few tables away.

Clarke scowls at him but he’s unfazed. Bellamy’s begrudgingly impressed. “Who invited you, Murphy?” Clarke says.

“I came from your mother’s house.”

“What a coincidence, I came from yours,” she retorts. Murphy looks amused. Everyone knows they’re fond of each other. But while Bellamy and Clarke argue, Clarke and Murphy tear into each other’s goddamn ancestry. Its’s hilarious.

“She won’t,” Miller pipes up. Bellamy is grateful that someone has faith in him. Even if Bellamy doesn’t.

“She will,” Jasper adds and he clinks glasses with Monty.

And with that, the last of them had picked their sides. The bet is on and Bellamy tells himself that he has nothing to be worried about. It’s Christmas. Overrated Christmas. The day his mother left. He could still picture the feel of the rough paper between his fingers, where she had written her I’m-sorry-I’m-leaving-you-with-your-seven-year-old-sister note. Yeah, he doesn’t like Christmas.

But then, he looks at Clarke, making some inappropriate joke about Rudolph’s antlers and thinks, _would it be so bad to like it?_

Finally, Clarke says, “Okay, we're starting with  _one_ hug from a well-meaning friend.”

Bellamy frowns. “What—” and Clarke Griffin hugs him. Bellamy can’t breathe. Not just because she’s squeezing the life out of him but also because her hair is in his mouth and her chest is pressed against his and she’s breathing into the crook of his neck. Before he can stop himself, his arms come around her. She’s so warm. Maybe Christmas sweaters do have their merits He’s hugging Clarke Griffin.

The hug lasts way too long and is way too short at the same time. She pulls away, all the same. She’s a little flushed but not as flushed as he is.

“That’s something I never thought I’d see,” Octavia shouts. Bellamy doesn’t care.

“You’re going to have to up your game next time if you want to win, Griffin,” he says, but his voice is shaky and no one actually believes him. He might actually _die_ if her gift is better the next day.

“Already planning on it.”

“Is it too late to change my vote?” Miller asks.

“Shut up.”

But there’s no heat. He’s too goddamn happy.

* * *

 

“Are those really just two skittles?” Bellamy asks, incredulous. He wants to think he’s dreaming. It is something he would dream about. Clarke, lying next to him in bed, beaming up at him, wearing another one of her Christmas sweaters. But he doesn’t think he’s ever dreamed of Clarke barging into his bedroom at the crack of dawn yelling, “Wake up, asshole!” and chucking a pair of skittles at him.

He’s not complaining.

“Not even two packs of skittles?”

“Nope,” she chirps, popping the ‘p’.

“You couldn’t have gotten M&Ms instead?” he asks because he is an asshole.

Clarke stares at him, mildly horrified. “What kind of heathen prefers M&Ms over skittles?”

“My kind of heathen doesn’t,” he shoots back. “It’s chocolate over sour gooey stuff. _Chocolate_.”

And then she flicks one of the skittles at him because she’s also an asshole, apparently.

He glares at her. “You ruined half my gift.”

“The gift-giver can do so as they please with their gift. It’s basic giftology,” Clarkes sniffs.

“No. When the gift receiver receives the gift, it is no longer within the gift givers jurisdiction.”

She rolls her eyes at him and it’s very hard not to smile at her. “As if you know anything about giving gifts. You’re the Grinch remember?”

“Don’t be so Anglo-centric, Princess. There are tons of other gift giving holidays.”

“Yeah, but you feed off the tears of small children.”

Bellamy flicks the other skittle at her and she smacks his shoulder _. Oh god_ , he thinks when she leans into his shoulder. He’s a little terrified at how quickly he associates the way Clarke’s smells with home. _Oh God._

Bellamy ends up smiling, anyway. But so does Clarke.

* * *

 

It goes on this way. On the third day she gives him three socks. Not three pairs. Three pieces of sock. She thought it was hilarious. He thought it was ridiculous that she bought two pairs of socks and threw one away, just to make a joke. She fiercely disagreed. Raven called them both dumbasses. It was probably true.

He can’t think of a lot of worse things when he catches himself smiling at the socks, after she’s gone.

On the fourth day, she buys him four two dollar vodka shots. They smelt like paint remover and tasted even worse. He wakes up with a pounding headache and a dried throat and a reluctant contentment he dragged with him the rest of the day.

“You hoarded all the onion rings so you can give me five of them?” He asks on the fifth day he’s decidedly fucked.

Clarke shrugs. “Yup. Like the song.”

“Five golden rings, I know.”

She raises an eyebrow. “The Grinch likes Christmas carols.”

“I never said I liked them.”

“God forbid you like something.” But she’s smiling.

“God forbid,” he echoes. _You have no idea, Clarke. God forbid_.

The moment stretches long enough for them to feel the slight shift. Suddenly, there’s a keen awareness that something’s different and Bellamy watches fascinated, as Clarke swallows. He wants to kiss her. Her eyes flicker to his lips. _God forbid._

He wants to kiss her.

But Murphy cackles at something Miller said and they are reminded that they’re not alone, no matter how much it feels that way. The moment’s over too soon and he feels strangely hollow. Bellamy’s never wanted to punch Murphy in the face more. And Murphy being Murphy, it says something.

“Did you know that gold rings cost money? I had no clue.” Bellamy can tell she’s scrambling for things to say. She doesn’t want to talk about whatever that was. Bellamy smiles. If she doesn’t want to talk about it, he won’t talk about it.

“Me neither. I’ve always thought they grew on trees.”

She grins, less bright but it’s there. “I thought we had to pluck them from the bushes.”

“Get a room,” Octavia yells.

“Get a life.”

Clarke chuckles and he chuckles. He can’t really help himself, anymore.

_God forbid._

* * *

 

“You’re pathetic, Bell.”

Bellamy is only a little startled to find Octavia glaring at him, cross-armed, in his own apartment, right before he enters.

“Don’t you have your own apartment and a loving boyfriend to tend to?”

“My loving boyfriends tend to my apartment. It’s a great arrangement. And stop changing the subject. When are you going to tell Clarke that you’re in love with her?”

That gets him to stop. His mouth opens and closes uselessly. _Is he really that obvious?_

“Yes you’re that obvious.” She makes a face. “You’re basically a love-struck puppy around her.”

“As opposed to the love-struck puppy you’re dating?”

“It’s adorable when you’re dating. It’s just sad when you’re not.” Her expression softens. “Just tell her, Bell.”

He’s quiet for a while. “Does everyone know?”

“They changed the bet to _Will Bellamy Fall in Love by Christmas_.” Octavia doesn’t have to tell him which way the vote is leaning. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m pretty sure Clarke is clueless,” she continues.

It does. If she has to find out, he wants to tell her himself. He sighs. “I will tell her. I just need time to sort my shit out.”

“Bell—“

“I promise I’m fine, Octavia. I’ll tell her when I’m ready.”

She considers him for a long moment, like she wants to say something but decides against it. “Fine. You’re lame.”

Bellamy huffs a laugh, pulling Octavia into his arms. “And you’re a shit bartender.”

Octavia makes a noise of indignation but it’s too muffled by his chest to make any sense.

* * *

 

On the sixth day, she brings him a pack of beer and they watch the Laker’s game together. Bellamy hates beer and basketball. So does Clarke. It’s a pretty masochistic affair. But Clarke gets drunk-disgusted when she drinks beer and shit-talks the players even if she doesn’t know what she saying, so it’s pretty hilarious.

On the seventh day, she brings over all her Harry Potter books and they begin an in depth discussion over the merits of magic versus modern technology. Both agree they shouldn’t be mutually exclusive and owls are a terrible form of delivery. Then they sort everyone they know into Hogwarts houses. Bellamy’s a dumb Gryffindor and Clarke’s a snobbish Slytherin. The mailman is a Hufflepuff because he didn’t bring any bills and that’s, like, super nice of him. They can’t decide if batman’s a Slytherin or a Gryffindor in a lot of man-pain. They argue about that for a couple of hours until the sun starts to set and Clarke decides that Bellamy is her favorite Gryffindor of all time.

Bellamy doesn’t tell her that she’s his favorite of all time. Period.

* * *

 

On the eighth day, she bakes eight cupcakes and brings it over so that they can binge watch _Cupcake wars_ on Netflix, while eating sub-par cupcakes. He likes cupcakes and he likes cupcake wars and he really, really likes Clarke.

* * *

 

 

On the ninth day, he goes over to Clarke’s house to find nine children staring up at him expectantly. He reminds Clarke, gently, that he doesn’t want slaves to which Clarke responds with a pretty impressive eye roll.

“You have a class to teach,” she explains.

It’s not a very good explanation. “What?” he says, reasonably. The kids look between them like they know something, which is unsettling. He can’t possibly be _that_ obvious.

“These kids are from my art class.” She grins at them and they beam back, none of them immune to her charm. That makes ten of them. “They saw one of my paintings—you know, the medusa painting?” He knew it. Cried about how pretty it was, too. “So, I explained it to them, in a very child-friendly manner,” she adds. “And they wanted to learn about mythology and I think to myself; _hey I know a huge nerd_. So, here we are,” she says, in her it’s-no-big-deal-please-don’t-get-emotional voice.

The thing is, it’s a pretty big deal and he’s pretty emotional about it. He likes teaching. It's what he wants to do, once he's done with his graduate programme. Of course, he's touched. But Clarke shuffles on her feet the way she does when she’s nervous so he smiles at her, big and goofy, and then turns his attention to the kids.

“The first thing you need to know is that Zeus was the worst.”

He’s not looking at Clarke but her smile is in his peripheral vision and it’s absolutely blinding as he speaks.

* * *

 

On the tenth day, she settles next to him in his ratty couch, and they watch _Ten Things I Hate about You_. He doesn’t think it counts but she rests her head on his lap and all of a sudden. So, it actually does count.

He starts to think of a time when Clarke’s smile wasn’t in his peripheral vision or when he couldn’t smell pine, or when tangles of blonde hair didn’t get caught in his teeth and he realizes, he doesn’t like it one bit.

* * *

 

On the eleventh day, she doesn’t come over.

He tells himself the pang in his chest is because of heartburn but he knows it’s not. He misses her. He’d seen her the day before, but he misses her. He’s amazed at it. It’s not an ache, exactly. It’s not even an emptiness. It’s this awareness that things are fine, but it would be so much better with Clarke. That’s what fucks him up. It’s the knowledge that he could go his entire life without her but he really, really doesn’t want to.

Later, when his phone buzzes with Clarke’s text at 7. 15 pm, he think it’s a little pathetic, the way his heart pounds for a couple of seconds. _Way_ too long to ignore.

_Mom surprise attacked me with a stupid rich people party. I couldn’t get away. I’m sorry._

He thinks of not replying immediately, because that would seem too desperate. But, fuck it. He is. And he misses her.

_Annoy some white rich men for me?_

A few seconds, later his phone buzzes.

_Ofc. Talking about institutional racism with unwilling parties rn._

She doesn’t text again but he smiles the rest of the day. Because he knows. It’s better for her when he’s there too.

It’s 11.59 pm when he hears a knock at the door.

He’s a little surprised to see that it’s Clarke, looking particularly gorgeous in a midnight blue floor length gown outside, clutching a bouquet of roses. A dozen roses for the twelfth day. There is something to be said about consistency.

He grins at her. She looks less Christmas-y than ever. But she also looks like she’d do anything for an ugly Christmas sweater. He’s only slightly appalled that he would too.

She doesn’t wait to be invited in. She just brushes past him, dropping the bouquet into his arms and plops down onto his sofa, looking utterly exhausted. But she looks at home, too and he loves it. He loves her. 

He sits next to her, tossing the roses on the table next to him. Clarke immediately drops her head into his lap, like she’s been doing it her entire life. He bites back a smile and run his fingers through her hair. She sighs into his thigh.

“I’m pretty the roses aren’t inexpensive.”

She turns over to look up at him. “I stole them from the stupid party.”

He laughs incredulously. _Of course, she did_. “Of course you did.”

“My dad died on Christmas eve.” His hands still. Her eyes flutter close as she continues on. And it’s like she just _has_ to. “I really need to believe Christmas is good, Bellamy. My dad loved it so much and it _can’t_ be for nothing. That’s why I’m doing this. It’s stupid. You don’t have to love Christmas,” she breathes, her voice thick with emotion. He smoothes out the crease that had formed between her eyebrows and she relaxes.

He wants to say something that would help but he knows there’s nothing. So he settles on the truth.

“My mom left us on Christmas. Octavia was too young to remember much. I do. She left us gifts under the Christmas tree. This Optimus Prime action figure I really wanted and a cabbage patch kids doll for O. And then she left and we had to move in with her ex-boyfriend.”

She sucks in a breath like suddenly, everything makes sense. And it does. And because it does, he realizes that he has to tell her. He looks down at her. She’s so beautiful. Her eyes are still closed and her mouth slightly open. Her chest rising and falling as she breathes. He rubs his thumb across her bottom lip and some of her lip gloss comes away with it. She shudders slightly and he can’t possibly stop now.

“There’s this really stubborn girl I know who did everything she could to make a boy fall in love with miracles.”

She smiles at that. “She sounds pathetic.”

“Oh, she is. But the boy was, too. Because he’s really in love with her.”

Her eyes fly open and she jerks out of his lap, staring at him, wide eyed. He might have thought that she didn’t love him back, if she didn’t look so fucking giddy. He can’t believe he hadn’t told her sooner. She looks like she’d seen something magical. He’s not faring any better. He takes her all in. With her stubbornness and her terrible gifts and her stupid Christmas sweaters. _Magic_.

“Oh thank God.”

She kisses him and it’s everything. His hands cup her face and her fingers dig into his waist. It’s miracle upon miracle. Dreams crashing against reality, making something entirely different. Something infinitely better. She tastes like cinnamon and really expensive wine. Clarke moans against his lips and he is so close to losing it. When she finally pulls away, she’s flushed and breathing hard. He can’t imagine he looks much better.

She rests her head against his shoulder and her smile is still blinding.

“We have to tell the rest,” he says. But the _rest_ is the last thing on his mind.

“They’ll be smug about it.” She slips her fingers through his. He’s not surprised it’s a perfect fit.

“They had nothing to do with it. It’s a Christmas miracle.”

Clarke laughs. “Calm it, Blake. It’s just Christmas.”

But they both know that there’s no such thing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm idontgiveaneffie on tumblr. Come cry with me about fictional characters.


End file.
